The letter. More often than not, it is not what we listen to that is beautiful but the listening itself. I was on the line taking morning sessions on the stopping all stations to Upfield. I was listening to two young woman-talking shoes and spray tans. They slouched, legs akimbo, sharing an Ipod and cigarette. Their voices were unusually melodious. It was mid morning and I had an appointment at Batman at midday with a forty-something academic, having a crisis. After forty-odd-years he discovered that his life was complete nonsense. Frankly, I could have told him that this was a realization that hit us all eventually, but he wouldn’t have believed me. If he did nothing, concentrated on his garden, took up crosswords, his problems would soon vanish. He had been singing socialist folk songs from the age of six. He furthered his unhappiness by moving west to live with the ‘real people’. He subdued his monsters with whisky, rock bands, saving the world through responsible architecture and slaughtering his own livestock in his garage. I didn’t get the connection. He was too cheap to hire a proper psychiatrist and that’s where I fit in. One of his doctorial students recommended me; the outsourcing councilor. Four fifteen-minutes sessions later we seemed to be getting nowhere. It was like we were talking in different languages. Today, I would tell him there was no expedient prescription for happiness, bar acceptance of one’s shifting destiny.

The platform was super-crowded with people that caught the same train every day. Jacana is at the beginning of Zone Two; an inviting gateway to the filthy paradise that is Roxburgh Park and Craigieburn. These suburbs are apparently the new fertile spots for the social critics, palm trees slump in the heat from the hotness that comes with being a now suburb. In the newspapers academics are championing the virtues of Jacanas’ pizza shops and walkways over the railway tracks. The walls are camouflaged in brandalism, which is what gets the refugees from East Brunswick all high, horny and woozy. They ‘like’ the lethally complex geopolitical phenomenon that is Jacana. The train ground to a halt. A neon message flashed across the overhead screen, Trains running late are unlikely to make up time.
What else? More people than you think sleep standing up on peak hour trains. The whole episode is a little like ‘Alice in Wonderland’ after Alice had disappeared down the hole.

 I got off at Epping because the train was so crowded. I see a haze of grey. It smells like a rubbish barge, rotting fish and porridge. I have a cup of coffee in my hand. I’ve managed to find a seat on the empty platform, which is brilliant. It is amazing, I can buy an espresso anywhere and they all taste shithouse. Like dishwater made drinkable by lashing of sugar. That’s sophistication. I re-arrange my effects; stick my money and drugs in a coat pocket. My watch says 10:30 am. I feel rather smug about myself. I ponder the idea that I could make a television series about my new career as an outsourcing councillor. I think not. I guess like that guy that recently was arrested taking photos of girls’ undies by sticking a miniature camera on the tip of his shoes. How does someone wind up at that position in life when this sounds like a good idea?Like everybody else in this carriage my brain is a vacuum and my nose is streaming. The whistle sounds and the train pull out of the station. I sit back and enjoy the smells and unhappiness. Who farted?

I

The screech of the electronic doors closing sounds and the train pulls out of the station. Like everybody else in this carriage my brain is locked in a void and my nose is streaming. I sat back and absorbed the smells and unhappiness. Charles Dickens would have recognised this odour of the streets. I felt quite at home myself. As it happens, I have been reading 'The Lost Books Of The Odyssey' a remarkable take on the Greek saga. I also memorized every station between Flinders Street and Frankston.

Eva wasn’t impressed by my recall. “When did you become such an arsehole?”

I gave a little laugh. Eva is 26 years old. She was eight years into an Arts degree at Melbourne University and got knocked up. She is a regular customer. Who could make sense of that? I joked that I had Stockholm syndrome; I had come to love my clients regardless of non-payment. I gave Eva details on why she’s an angry person who has to accept this and be patient and let her feeling of anger pass. To illustrate my counsel I tell her the story of Odysseus. How Odysseus understood how weak human will-power actually was when he asked his crew to bind him to the mast while navigating beside the sirens.

Willpower was something you can never have enough of? 

Eva sat scowling and jabbing her arm repeatedly with a fountain pen till she drew blood. I grabbed the pen from her. I draw the line at self-harm.

Shrinks speak softly. They are low-talkers but they give great empathy. On your final appointment they usually make a short speech; “Psychiatry taught me that you have to come up with your own version of neurotic happiness. I'm never going to be a normal person. No one changes, no one gets better – once you make friends with your neuroses you can plan a life.” 
I might have to book into a therapist myself, a male psychiatrist this time my previous shrinks have been female. 
The start of winter and lack of light has flattened me out. I feel like I’m walking in custard. Thing is, I’m the best semi-retired counselor working in Melbourne.

On the up side my orange tree, which I have grown from, a foundling lying in the yard of a wrecked house is really fruiting up. Homegrown oranges are great, not so sweet, with a real tang. I’m reading many books, Russians & Eastern Europeans. 
I have written a new album of songs, but decided I will wait till next year before doing the rounds of the arts bureaucrats to hawk the idea of recording it. I am an older person. I take medication, but still get a little edgy. However, I am at heart a happy fellow.


 The train rumbles into Newport Station and an older man in blue cotton drill Yakka workwear sat opposite me. He wanted to know what the time was. Next he wanted to know what my nametag meant. I asked him if he wanted a session. I explained the first time it is free. He could talk his head off till Seddon for free. 

I ran my business like a heroin dealer. He didn’t think much of my joke. He looked at me like I was a lying sack of shit.

I gave my spiel: “The idea of these sessions are that they are dynamic and we can jump right into what your real issues are.”

He looked at me like I was a lying sack of shit: “Let’s cut to the chase I’ve taken out a 12 week course at a gymnasium, to get fitter and lose a few pounds. I would like to meet some ladies. I am at heart a romantic.”
I interrupted,” Don’t give up at forty-nine hey.”

He smiled, he seemed genuine. 


I said: “I wouldn’t take it too seriously. I mean are you divorced? How long? Kid? Still got ya own teeth, frankly a young twenty-nine year old might be revolted by false teeth. I mean why would you go out with someone who would go out with you?”

I believed I was laying out the facts in a non-judgmental shape.


His face went white and all the colours seemed to drain from his face. “That’s just my opinion I’ve got almost ten years on you, my attitude might be different. I suppose you’ve tried the on-line agencies and the like?”

I handed him my printed card and clipped out a number on the card and gave it to him. “Same time next week, every seventh visit is on me. I shall put my mind to this.”

Seddon Station popped into view.Yakka Man stepped between the automatic doors into reality. He stopped, turned round and looked at me and waved. I snapped out of my trance. It was corny but reassuring; I had a new customer on the books.

I have been in analysis for a number of years and I am what’s called semi-retired. This summer I’ve taken to musing about wide-ranging topics that I know nothing about to strangers whilst on public transport. Knowing nothing has never stopped me before. It could conceivably help my patients and myself. I believe emotional recovery can be best served in a less officious surrounding and I think that shorter but more intense sessions can be fruitful. As a musician I made a name for myself by injecting a sense of moral ambiguity into pop music. But these days, institutional corruption and moral ambiguity are a given across all the arts.

Well, duh.

It’s sort of thrilling to have a real job-working freelance as an outsourcing counselor. My music career has been consigned to the bin for present. I did a six-week course at a TAFE. It was pretty thorough. Clearly, further study would be helpful, but I’m a rocker and shall learn on the job.

I was running late. I arrived at the Caulfield line and immediately had to make a decision, two hours or an all day card? I might go for a monthly, yearly, or even buy a smart card. I always ride in the carriage second from the front. I don’t know why.

My name is Stephen and I am at the age of 59 I am taking stock of my mistakes in life. For thirty years I was a musician a moderately successful one. I lifted black boxes and guitars from one car to another car to another room to another airport and city, world and well you get my drift. I made money and I lost it to hire car, equipment and travel agencies. My hair is silver.

Since my disconnection from social networks, and my loathing of peoples fascination for themselves and other strangers I have reacquainted myself with the idea of conversation and the talking therapy. Consequently, I work as an outsourcing counselor! My life has moved in a challenging new direction. Some division of some city mission project has hired me. Every day I meet my patients on the various lines. I don’t make appointments, you have to buy a ticket and get on board for ‘The Train Sessions’.

It was Montaigne, French nobleman that invented the journal. Supposedly, he was the first memoroirist, a recorder of times, good and bad. His diaries weren’t used to glorify his deeds and he contradicts himself over time. I can identify with this.

I no longer smoke but still worry about losing my balance in the shower and have made a conscious decision to cross roads at the lights and to use the rails when walking down stairways. I keep bathing and shaving to a necessary minimum.

the train sessions’

She took me in her arms and kissed me.

I woke up and immediately looked up my phone dictionary. To "sass” means to be unnecessarily cheeky or rude. I’d learnt a new word.

Yesterday in the heat I was working at my other job as an outsourcing councillor on the Melbourne train system. I had a session on the Epping line later. My clients on this line are so sardonic. It was between Rushall and Croxton Park that two hipsters sat opposite me. They were not companionable. They kept to themselves. Hipsters who are so hip they abhor other hipsters. I sat and listened. It’s my job, its what I do. These two weren’t my clients.

Eve, the female hipster sported a grown out pixie-cut, evidently she had been to the Apple shop near Flinders Street and had an appalling shopping encounter. She was incensed: ”The first half of the 2000s will be remembered as the era of being duped by designers. All style no substance. I will never buy a Macintosh product ever again."

Eve adjusted the strap on her appliqué Apple computer handbag.

I made an unasked contribution to the conversation. “It will be remembered as the age of forgetting; we seem incapable as a species of making sense from mass murder in Africa, and the Middle East. The first half of the 2000s will instead be regarded as a time of wasted opportunities. Nobody will give a fig about fonts or designers. You most likely didn’t even read the appropriate manual.”

There was a metaphoric stew brewing.

Eve, the female hipster flew into a rage: “Woah. Zing. You don't even know what my problem was, or how I behaved or whether or not reading the manual would have helped. Everyone has a job; I spend all day dealing with customers (at my job, in hospitality...) and don't turn into an a-hole like you.”

Adam” Oh boy sassed!

They stood up smiling at their quick wit. There was no time for a retort. I turned away, reduced to a public pest. The children of the age of light and IKEA descended to the Northcote platform. As if to say, we haven’t finished with you yet.

the french love their pharmacists, train blog

I am watching my client as he walks towards me. I can hear footsteps. People brush past us as we attempt to board the Mentone train, stopping all stations to the city. I would never sign up for train-wreck-style reality show. No way! I became an outsourcing counsellor on the Melbourne Metropolitan rail lines when my life as a musician hit a bad patch. The client scoffs happily, gimlet eyes a-twinkle. The customer is an actor on TV. Naturally, he’s also a writer, a composer of music, musicals and has his own theatre group. He is not unattractive, wearing a baseball cap, dark glasses and neutral leisurewear as a disguise. He might as well be carrying a neon sign. He loves Mentone, the village, the postcode, 3194, the ordinariness of it, the bowling alley, Warragul Road and the broad beach with cliffs that the early 20th century painters so adored. He loves neighbouring suburbs Parkdale and Mordialloc, but not Beaumaris, its pretentious, especially the yacht club off Beach Road. He informs me that my face is drained of life and colour. I press my hands to my face. “What makes you say that?” I told myself, if he doesn’t speak soon I’m going to fall asleep. Momentarily flustered by my indifference my client underwent a transformation, a silent storm that set the carriage alight. His ego crudely penetrated the space. He was possessed, fell to the floor and screamed that he was cursed by gypsies, that his past was strewn with heartlessly rejected lovers of both sexes - for he had such a pride in his ability as an actor and his attractiveness. His voice held no sign of gaiety. He was drenched in sweat. I tried to crawl to another carriaqge. No luck . . . to be continued

The letter. More often than not, it is not what we listen to that is beautiful but listening itself. I was on the line taking morning sessions on the stopping all stations to Upfield. I was listening to two young woman-talking shoes and spray tans. They slouched, legs akimbo, sharing an Ipod and cigarette. Their voices were unusually melodious. It was mid morning and I had an appointment at Batman at midday with a forty-something academic, having a crisis. After forty-odd-years he discovered that his life was complete nonsense. Frankly, I could have told him that this was a realization that hit us all eventually, but he wouldn’t have believed me. If he did nothing, concentrated on his garden, took up crosswords, his problems would soon vanish. He had been singing socialist folk songs from the age of six. He furthered his unhappiness by moving west to live with the ‘real people’. He subdued his monsters with whisky, rock bands, saving the world through responsible architecture and slaughtering his own livestock in his garage. I didn’t get the connection. He was too cheap to hire a proper psychiatrist and that’s where I fit in. One of his doctorial students recommended me; the outsourcing councilor. Four fifteen-minutes sessions later we seemed to be getting nowhere. It was like we were talking in different languages. Today, I would tell him there was no expedient prescription for happiness, bar acceptance of one’s shifting destiny.

The stationmaster loves his job. He sorted out a squabble between two nasty bastards. It was over a copy of yesterday’s free afternoon newspaper. Talk about idiotic. I am listening to rock and roll on my iPhone as the 2:30 pm Palace On Wheels that runs express from Pakenham to Caulfield, except it doesn’t. At Westall, two handsome Sierra Leone kids enter the carriage and sit two rows behind me smoking some righteous weed. These kid’s parents had managed to escape a bloody war by sea or plane to Australia. They had escaped curfews, glazed expressions and machine guns. The world is full of nomadic sad souls. The Australia government won’t accept their fair share to this free and peaceful country. Talk about pathetic. No one applauds my virtuous thoughts. The sweet smell brings back memories of my youth, sitting on the beach at Black Rock eating magic mushrooms in honey while my girlfriend knocked her chillum against a bluestone breakwater and stuffed black hashish into the opening and lit up. I am dressed in a light black raincoat, a coat that John Cassaveties might wear in a detective film, or possibly where he plays an expert on women or a whacked philosopher. I have my folder in my lap. I am wearing my nametag, which says, outsourcing counselor in red italics. It looks official but doesn’t scare the kids or elderly away. My iPhone went mad; someone needed me. A customer was having an existential emergency. I answered the call; my customer was waiting at Murrumbeena railway station. I explained that I was on an express, customer said, no problem as a wrinkly had collapsed at the railway crossing and the express would have to stop. He explained that the area where Zones One and Two meets are like a Devil’s Triangle for the elderly, they disappear in mysterious circumstances. Extraterrestrials or fare evaders are suspected to be responsible. Another explanation pins the blame on suspected leftover equipment from the lost city of Atlantis. Rail authorities will not confirm or deny this.

Jacana is at the beginning of Zone Two. The gateway to the paradise that is Roxburgh Park and Craigieburn. These suburbs are apparently the new fertile spots for the social critics, palm trees slump in the heat from the hotness that comes with being a now suburb. Academics and social critics are championing the virtues of the pizza shops and walkways over the railway tracks. The walls are camouflaged in brandalism, which is what gets the refugees from East Brunswick all high, horny and woozy. They ‘like’ the lethally complex geopolitical phenomenon that is Jacana.

What do you mean your mother made you wear underpants from the old covers from bankbooks? Start again and go through it slowly, because this is the most amazing story I have ever heard.

I am listening to rock and roll on my iPhone on the 2:30 pm Palace On Wheels that runs express from Pakenham to Caulfield, except it doesn’t. At Westall, two handsome Sierra Leone kids enter the carriage and are sitting two rows behind me smoking some righteous weed. These kid’s parents had managed to escape a bloody war by sea or plane to Australia. They had escaped curfews, glazed expressions and machine guns. The world is full of sad souls. For unknown reasons the Australia government doesn’t want to take their fair share of refugees. No one applauds my virtuous thoughts. The sweet smell brings back memories of my youth, sitting on the beach at Black Rock eating magic mushrooms while my girlfriend Tina knocked her chillum against a chunk of bluestone breakwater and stuffed some black hashish into the opening and lit up. I am dressed in a light black raincoat, a coat that you might expect John Cassaveties to wear in a detective film. I have my folder in my lap. I am wearing my nametag, which says, outsourcing counselor in Times New Roman red italics. It looks official but doesn’t scare the kids away. My iPhone went off, someone needed me. A client was having an emergency. I answered the iPhone; my client was waiting at Murrumbeena railway station. I explained that I was on an express, he said, no problem as an old lady had collapsed at the railway crossing and the express would have to stop. The areas where zones 1 and 2 meet are like a Bermuda triangle for pensioners dying, like lemmings they are drawn to train tracks for that final journey.

new novel: the Mission stories.

Shrinks listen to everything and speak softly. On your final appointment they usually make a short speech; “Psychiatry taught me that you have to come up with your own version of neurotic happiness. I'm never going to be a normal person. No one changes, no one gets better – once you make friends with your neuroses you can plan a life.” I might have to book into a therapist myself, a male psychiatrist this time my previous shrinks have been female. The start of winter and lack of light has flattened me out. I feel like I’m walking in custard. Thing is, I’m the best counselor working in Melbourne.

On the up side my orange tree, which I have grown from, a foundling lying in the yard of a wrecked house is really fruiting up. Homegrown oranges are great, not so sweet, with a real tang. I’m reading many books, Russians & eastern Europeans. I have written a new album, but decided I will wait till next year before doing the rounds of the arts bureaucrats to hawk the idea of recording it. Listening to audio book of 'Brave New World' its rather good. The book foretold the future reasonably well. I lay in bed I listened to the new Keith Richard memoir, read by Johnny Depp. It was draining. Each note of a rich drug addicts self-satisfied spiel. Does it get worse than that? When Keith sticks to music its enjoyable. Australian literature is of zero interest to me. I quit Facebook; it was harder than stopping smoking.

“Our time is up Dog,”

“Our time is up Dog,” I said to my customer disguised as a Cambodian shrapnel bomb of ill-angled words and sputtering electronic bleeps named Boo. He reckons he uses me as his confessional or tour guide. Boo’s first single "Dicksweat" comes out in March.
Boo exclaimed, "Hey Mister C, guard your grill and take a chill pill.”
Boo bumped knuckles and I stepped on to the platform. It was like entering through a portal into nothingness. It was called Huntingdale.
Next thing I knew I was eating at sub-continental cafe with a nun. “So how can I be of help Sister?”
“No in fact, quite the opposite sinner. How can I help you? Your face looks like hell and I can tell you’re a crotchety old man whose carnal appetites have shrunk to zero.”
Looks like nothing romantic this afternoon. Bummer. I needed time to think. I played games with the soy bottle on the laminex table to gain some leverage. A yellow banner with a slogan like ALL YOU CAN EAT; No Sharing Plates. Was plastered behind the counter.
I lightly stroked her cheek: “Why don’t we talk about this next week?”
The sister adjusted her habit and whistled a Latin alternative version of the Beatles ‘Eight Days A Week’.
I bought a newspaper and sat down at the table: “Listen Sister, last I heard you were dead and hiding out in New Zealand and working as a turntabalist in a bar where you made top-shelf Brazilian pastries and empanadas’.”

Every moment is a golden one

“Psychiatry taught me that you have to come up with your own version of neurotic happiness. I'm never going to be a normal person. No one changes, no one gets better – once you make friends with your neuroses you can plan a life.” John waters. The Guardian.

That’s how I’m feeling tonight, but I might have to book into a therapist. A male one this time, my two previous shrinks have been female. I never thought I’d have to do it again, but the start of winter and lack of light has flattened me out. I feel like I’m walking in custard.

On the up side my orange tree, which I have grown from, a foundling lying in the yard of a a wrecked house is really fruiting up. Homegrown oranges are great, not so sweet, but a real tang. That’s enough for a first blog back. I’m reading many books, russians & eastern europeans. I have written a new album, but decided I will wait till next year before recording it. listening to audio book of 'Brave New World' its rather good. Also listened to keith richard bio, read by johnny depp. very draining, rich drug addicts bragging. does it get worse than that? When he sticks to music. Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such. Australian literature is of zero interest to me. 'Cloudlands' or anything by Tim Flanagan or whoever all deadly, and not in the indiginous australian use of that phrase. i quit facebook for good; harder than stopping smoking.

love you, love me,

stephen

My afternoons in Huntingdale: The train Sessions

My afternoons in Huntingdale

“Our time is up Dog,” I said to my customer disguised as a Cambodian shrapnel bomb of ill-angled words and sputtering electronic bloops named Boo. He reckons he uses me as his confessional or tour guide. Boo’s first single "Dicksweat" comes out in March.

Boo exclaimed, "Hey Mister C, guard your grill and take a chill pill.”

Boo bumped knuckles and I stepped on to the platform. It was like entering through a portal into nothingness. It was called Huntingdale.

Next thing i knew I was eating at sub-continental cafe with a nun.

“So how can I be of help Sister?”

The Train Sessions’

I made a name for myself by injecting a sense of moral ambiguity into pop music. But these days, institutional corruption and moral ambiguity are a given across all the arts. Well, duh.

Anyway, its sort of thrilling to have a real job working freelance as an outsourcing counselor.

I was running a little late. When I arrived at the Caulfield line I was caught in a dilema; two hours or an all day card. If this counselor business takes off I might go for a monthly, quartly, or even the Myki smart card. I always ride in the carriage second from the front. My memories a bit vague on why I actually do this.

Anyway, I change trains at South Yarra for the Sandringham Line. I swept out of one carriaqge on to another train. I’m thinking beach side, shady green belt, middle class customers to start the day.

I wear a name tag that Officeworks ran up for me. Nothing too large. Outsourcing Counselor it says, $50 for 15 minutes; not as good as working at a massage parlour, but I more often than not keep my clothes on.

A young lady with piercing in her eyebrow and cheek sat down across from me and began talking. She wore a shapeless black dress. There were bundles of newspaper at her feet. She was wearing red Converse runners and white sox. I thought she was too old to pull off that look. On anyone older than fifteen, it was ridiculous. I knew what I had to do, but instead exploded in cold chills and a rash. It comes with the job. This youngish female was having problems; she had cancer and hadn’t told any of her friends. She was pregnant and confused, she needed to talk, she wanted to have fun, but she needed to control herself and her emotions. I needed to deal with this problem as quickly as possible. Bummer. Not a perfect start to a shift.

As I said, she started talking at Ripponlea and by Sandringham I was checking my watch and looking at the timetable for the next express back to the city. The depressing piano music in my head started playing and as we alighted on to the platform the woman rushed forward as though to throw herself under the train. I felt sure her number was up, fortunately a staff pyscho crashed into her and she collapsed in a heap on the platform.

Before you could ask the question, “How do the SSRI's compare to the MAOIs? I had grabbed my fee from her purse, handed over my stamped discount customer card and made an appointment for next week for her. Next I stuck the chick in a taxi and sent her off to the Hospital. I couldn’t think of where else to put her. She was now the Indian drivers problem.

Till tomorrow, Stephen

Odysseus understood how weak willpower actually is when he asked his crew to bind him to the mast while sailing by the seductive Sirens. Mmmmm willpower something you can never have enough of? I have been reading 'The Lost Books Of The Odyssey' an interesting take on the Greek tale.

working part-time as an outsourcing counselor!

Unconcerned with cash as I am, I have been thinking of working part-time as an outsourcing counselor! Why? Why not!I have been in analysis for a number of years and at my age I need a hobby. This summer I’ve taken to musing about wide-ranging topics that I know nothing about to strangers whilst on public transport. Knowing nothing has never stopped me before. It could conceivably help my patients and myself. I think its a spiffy idea. I’m trying to bring that word back. My fruit trees are running late; be at least another month before I’m eating apples, pears, nectarines, oranges and lemons.

Whatever the case, I managed to pull in some good money travelling between broadmeadows and Cranbourne the other day.I have given up drinking—again.